


The Legend of Blaine Anderson: Dalton Fight Club Edition

by aubreyli



Category: Glee
Genre: All that charisma combined with violence?, Author may have a bit of a violence kink, Boys fighting, But only when it comes to Blaine, Gen, Non-graphic depictions of violence, Second person POV, There is something compellingly sexy about the idea of Blaine Anderson fighting, and only when it's FANTASY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/aubreyli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dalton-by-day is populated by gentlemen.  Dalton-by-night, is a whole other story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Legend of Blaine Anderson: Dalton Fight Club Edition

**Author's Note:**

> The OTHER legend of Blaine Anderson (because you can't expect Glee to bring up something like a secret Dalton fight club and NOT expect me to run with it).

Dalton-by-day is populated by  _gentlemen,_ boys with their backs straight in their chairs and nothing but the Queen’s English in their wholesome, butter-wouldn’t-melt mouths.  Dalton-by-day is a haven of learning, of music, of fraternity and good sportsmanship.  The jewel of that Dalton is the Warblers, a charming group of talented,  _civilized_ young men, and none is more charming or civilized than young Mr. Anderson, with his silver-screen good looks and impeccable manners.

Dalton-after-dark is another story.

The Dalton Academy Fight Club is, simultaneously, the best and worst-kept secret in the school.  Everybody knows about the fight club — unless you ask them directly, and then  _nobody_ knows about the fight club.  And anyone can get into the fight club — you just need to talk to certain people, and be very, very sure that you know what you’re getting into.

But if you do murmur the right words in the ears of the right people, promising complete discretion and unwavering adherence to the  _rules_ of the fight club, you might score an invite.

So let’s say you do have an invite, and you’re a little nervous because it’s your first time and your old school never had anything like  _this_.  You walk into the Warblers’ practice room (it’s big, sound-proofed, and close enough to the bathrooms for easy clean-up), where your peers are pushing aside furniture and moving baccarat tables, before forming a large circle around the middle of the room.

“All right,” one of them (David, a Warbler) says, “we’re ready.”

Then the sea of shoulders parts, and reveals Blaine Anderson — but not the Blaine Anderson you see every day in chemistry class who always has an extra pencil to lend out; the Blaine of the Warblers, all shining charisma and golden, silky voice; the Blaine who you might be a little bit in love with because he once spent two hours explaining trigonometric functions to you, and _beamed_ at you when you finally got it.

This Blaine  _struts_ into the circle, moving with a tiger’s heavy, slinking grace.  He makes deliberate eye contact with just about every person in the room, while he takes off his blazer, his tie, his shoes, his shirt.  You can feel the temperature in the room spike every time Blaine removes an article of clothing; like most of the boys here, you’re not gay, but there’s just something about Blaine like  _this_ that seems to sizzle the air around him.

Clad in only his slacks and a thin, white undershirt that does nothing to hide the musculature of his torso, Blaine addresses the club and goes over the rules, once more.

And then the fighting starts.

It’s… it’s  _glorious._ The noise alone is enough to make your head spin; add to that the  _heat_ of dozens of bodies clamouring for a good view, the  _smell_ of sweat-soaked adrenaline and fading cologne, and the symbiotic energy of performer and audience driving each other on and on.

You keep yourself near the back and watch the fighters, especially Blaine, who’s in one of every three fights, and has won every single one so far.  He’s a lot smaller than many of his opponents, but stronger than he looks, agile, and  _terrifyingly_ fast, ducking and weaving so his opponents hardly ever catch anything but air, and waiting for just the right moment before striking out, cobra-quick, to take his opponent down.

But it’s more than just technique — you know, you’ve been doing martial arts since you were ten; it’s one of the reasons why you felt comfortable joining this club — it’s an intensity in the eyes, a fearless sort of confidence that extends like a force field to his hands and feet, that says, with every punch and kick, “I’ve already won.”  You can tell that the others feel it too — they treat him like a prizefighter at a championship title match, practically falling over themselves to get him water and a towel whenever he steps out of the circle.

You lose track of time, of the ever-changing rotation of increasingly bruised and bloodied bodies, until finally, Blaine’s giving the last call.

“One more,” he announces.  ”Who wants to fight me?”

Immediately, a dozen voices spring up, but — by luck or grace — yours is the quickest and the loudest, and Blaine’s nodding to you as the crowd parts to let you through.

He grins at you when you take your place across from him in the circle and take off your jacket.  He’s fought six times already, and is still flushed and panting heavily from his last fight.  His knuckles are red and raw, and you can see the beginnings of bruises dotting his upper body.  His curls, long since escaped from the gel, tumble wildly around his face, and he is glistening with sweat and smeared blood.

You have at least five inches and a good ten pounds on him, you’re completely fresh, and you have medals and trophies in your room at home that prove your fighting prowess.  

You’re going to lose.

“Are you ready?” he asks, looking at you with eyes that almost glow with laser-like concentration, as that energy that’s protected him all evening crackles like electricity all around his body.  And you think about having all that hot, gorgeous intensity focused on  _you,_ and only you, for as long as you can stay on your feet.

It’ll be worth it.

“Yeah.”


End file.
